Exhale

part of me yet seeks to be

still.

exhale

without soulclawing for air

in a pain-murmuring body

holding itself hostage.

daily, i hunt armistice,

for tenuous relief

from this sisyphean shell,

forever roiling with

ebbs + echoes

of bonerooted pain-

newly validated

by nodding white coats.

the nightmare breathes inside my skin

i feel it

before my eyelids even flutter open

it whispers me awake

an agony anthem

gleefully unraveling

the sandman’s lullaby

in its midnight playground

disease has burned its brand on me

its spiderweb suffering

deepwoven into fickle DNA

seeking mastery with a conqueror’s fist

yet i

like many others

am so much more than the pain i carry

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Linger

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Morning dangles from my fingertips

as I wake still half-submerged

in my dream’s disruptive cocoon.

Though the sun

weaves a path through the clouds,

i can still taste the unfurled potency

of Morpheus’s playground

etching jagged pockmarks

into the dream-stained day.

The golden haze of first blush

beckons, radiating reassurance

but i, unassured

still blink reverie shards

from troubled lashes.

Seed sharp roots murmur of elsewhere,

ruthlessly teasing my mind’s edges

as they sketch

illegible writings on the wall,

twilight harnessed

in a gambler’s glimpse

of the space between worlds.

Recollect

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i can’t stop spending

the mishmash currency of

coin-cast moments

stacked neatly on

an unevenly varnished

mental shelf.

such cautious sentries,

canaries trumpeting their warning of

the tides of change

that spiral kitten soft

licking & mewling at corners.

i reach & reach

grabbing dog-eared delusions

frozen amber frenzies,

unspooled choices &

pearled nostalgia,

for my first annual

Freudian tag sale

The Ripening (Revisited)

This is a poem I wrote a long, long time ago– but it still holds true today. A little bit for all of us, maybe? 

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i miss the me
that doesn’t exist yet.

the me that doesn’t ever feel
hollow or tarnished,
but new-minted
brassy with happiness.

i can feel her roots,
burrowed too deep
for conscious thought or recognition.

outside the cocoon,
a spirit adrift,
circling warily around my potential

idly watching
the twisted not-quite-right person
struggle to bloom.

Mirror

488224_625229996956_47473922_nwho am i today?

a tightly threaded unsung melody

coiled beneath coppery spooled skin

forcing strength enough to push through

or a resigned slave eroded by exhaustion

dangling green grapes into the

yawning mouth of lassitude.

do i have my warrior will to fight

to once again ignore screaming bones

and dive into the sunken spray of life

or am i crouching in my hunchback shade

hiding behind a mask of pain and rage

snarling at those who draw too near

on days like today

if you held the mirror before me

i’m not sure who i’d be

i’m not even sure

who i want to be anymore

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